You Belong With Me
by Always-Running-From-Time
Summary: When new boy Oscar Wilde comes to Windermere High, he's not sure what to expect—certainly not the talented Robbie Ross. But when bad boy Bosie comes onto the scene, will Oscar be able to keep his famous wit about him? Bosie/Wilde/Ross High School AU
1. Commencement

**Chapter One: **Beginnings

"_Every saint has a past, and every sinner a future"—Wilde_

"Wilde? Oscar Wilde? Are you paying attention young man?" Oscar looked up, irritation showing in his tempestuous gray eyes.

"Yes, Mr. Palmer?" he asked, voice sounding soft and lilting. "Is there are problem, sir?"

"Have you paid attention to a word of this lecture on the ancient Greeks?" the teacher snapped.

"No," said Oscar, smiling brightly. He could hear the titters of laughter behind him. They had been an almost constant accompaniment to his every mark since he'd first come to Winderrmere High. Everything about him—his long chestnut locks, his mouthful of a name (Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde), his slight Irish accent and his propensity towards waxing lyrical— everything about him was _wrong_, and an invitation to mockery.

"What?" Mr. Palmer looked taken aback. "What are you—"

"What I mean," the boy said, shutting his book with a snap, "is that I've spent this lecture doing important things. You see, I've already covered all this material. And you're wrong, by the way. Most scholars agree that the destruction of Troy was in 1190 AD, not 1178." At that moment, the bell rang, and the student as one rose and hurried out of the class. Oscar paused only to grab his notebook and, with a wave to Mr. Palmer, hurried out.

He shouldered his way through the boys in the hallway, trying to make it to his locker.

"Hey, Paddy!" came an unfortunately familiar voice. Oscar looked up, glaring at the six-foot wall of muscle, testosterone and bad attitude in front of him.

"Hello Baldwin," he said, sighing. "You know, you'd think you'd get bored at this. Even your miniscule intellect must find it tedious."

"Shut up, Wilde," said the boy, pushing Oscar so he dropped his books. Homer and Herodotus spilled across the cold tile floor.

"Stop!" Oscar cried, his voice sounding out like a bell across the wild green hills of County Kerry. "Those are valuable books!" He made a grab for them, but Baldwin's huge, meaty fist slammed into the side of Oscar's head, and the world spun. Sound filled his head and receded, the dim sound of the second bell vaguely ringing in his ears. He heard footsteps approach.

"Are you all right?" came a voice from beside him. Small, strong hands helped him to a sitting position.

"I, ah, I appear to find myself at an extreme disadvantage," Oscar said, loosening his necktie. He touched his chin gingerly, feeling the red-hot poker-like twinge in his jaw. "I think that might bruise." He finally looked up to see his savior.

Stormy gray eyes met deep forest green ones, and Oscar felt for a moment like the room was spinning once more.

"I'm Robert," said the boy. He was a fine specimen of youth, small and lithe with a bright intelligent face and deep brown hair.

"Oscar Wilde," he said, accepting the boy's offer of a hand up.

"So I've heard," said the younger boy. "I know you've probably heard this a lot, but I kind of want to ask… Is it true?"

"Is what true?" asked Oscar warily.

"Is it true you were cast out of your old school for distributing, um… objectionable materials?"

"Oh!" said Oscar. "You mean the Uranian ideals? Yes, that's true." He looked at the new boy warily, expecting the usual reaction: the disgust, the horror, the ridicule. But none of these came. "Why?" he asked finally.

"Oh," said the boy, lowering his eyes shyly. Oscar noticed his long dark lashes, perfectly framing his limpid emeralds. "I was just, um… Well…"

"Yes?" Oscar asked, hanging on the boy's every perfuméd breath.

"Would you care to show me?" he asked, looking skittish as a young fawn. "Not here, of course. It's too dangerous. But… later."

"I… I think I would love that," said Oscar, gathering his books.


	2. Des mots de l'amour

**Chapter Two:** Des mots de l'amour

"_Romance should never begin with sentiment. It should begin with science and end with a settlement."—Wilde _

Oscar slipped into the back of his French class, ten minutes late and rather bedraggled. Madame Arnold had already begun the lecture, and didn't even look up as he entered. He put his bag down gingerly and got out his pen.

"Psst," came a voice from his left. Oscar turned.

"Can I borrow a pen?" Oscar found himself digging in his bag for an extra pen before he'd even registered the request. He was too distracted by the extraordinary creature seated beside him. Clear sky-blue eyes gazed out at him from a face that could have been found on a Roman statue. The aquiline nose, the arched brow, the perfect bow of the scarlet lips—and all this framed by hair of the purest spun gold—it was beyond comprehension.

"Here," he said, passing his pen over to the other boy.

"Thanks." The boy took it, his milk-white fingers brushing against Oscar's own. The Irish boy felt a tingle run up his spine.

"The name's Douglas," said the boy. "Alfred Douglas. You can call me Bosie, though, everyone does."

"Oscar," he said faintly. "Oscar Wilde."

"I know you," said the boy. "You're the new kid, aren't you? A transfer or something, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Oscar. "I, uh, I am. New. That is. From Ireland."

"I can tell," Bosie said, smiling radiantly. "I can hear it on you. You've a beautiful voice. Like birdsong."

"Thanks," Oscar said, rather awestruck that such a beautiful creature would descend to a level where he could compliment a lowly thing like _him_. "You're, um—"

"Monsieur Wilde, is there a problem?" asked Madame Arnold.

"No ma'am," he said, flushing.

"Then I suppose you wouldn't mind telling us what poem of Baudelaire's we're currently reading, would you?"

"Umm…" Oscar glanced down at his textbook, heat rising in his cheeks and spreading across his pale face like a single drop of wine in a pool of clear water.

"It's 'La mort des artistes,'" Madame Arnold said, taking pity on him. "In its entirety, please, Oscar. And don't let your mind wander again."

"Oui, madame," he murmured, taking a deep breath before starting. He had a good voice for French, he knew, having studied it with his mother from a very young age. He couldn't quite shake all of the Irish slant to his accent, but he had been told he had a voice that was just soft enough to appreciate the mellifluous qualities of the language.

"Combien faut-il de fois secouer mes grelots  
>Et baiser ton front bas, morne caricature?<br>Pour piquer dans le but, de mystique nature,  
>Combien, ô mon carquois, perdre de javelots?<p>

Nous userons notre âme en de subtils complots,  
>Et nous démolirons mainte lourde armature,<br>Avant de contempler la grande Créature  
>Dont l'infernal désir nous remplit de sanglots!<p>

Il en est qui jamais n'ont connu leur Idole,  
>Et ces sculpteurs damnés et marqués d'un affront,<br>Qui vont se martelant la poitrine et le front,

N'ont qu'un espoir, étrange et sombre Capitole!

C'est que la Mort, planant comme un soleil nouveau,  
>Fera s'épanouir les fleurs de leur cerveau!"<p>

Oscar finished and shut the book slowly, feeling slightly drained. Reading Baudelaire always did that to him. The troubled Parisian's words always felt like they were intended just for him. Oscar felt that it was through art, and art only, that people could realize their perfection.

"Oscar," said Madame Arnold, "that was magnifique."

"Oh," Oscar said, "Merci beaucoup."

"That was… that was something else, mate," said Bosie, giving Oscar a wicked grin. "Where'd you learn to read poetry like that?"

"Well," said Oscar modestly, "A wise man once said, 'Poetry is what is lost in translation.' So I've learned to appreciate Baudelaire in the original French."

"Monsieur Wilde," Madame Arnold said. "Pay attention sil vous plait. And Monsieur Douglas, do not be a bad influence on Oscar."

"Sure thing, madame," said Bosie. He winked at Oscar, who smiled back before facing forward to pay attention to the lecture. A few minutes went by, and he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned in time to receive a folded-up paper from Bosie. He took it and unfolded it, narrow elegant fingers smoothing the paper.

"Want to come out for coffee with me and some mates?" it read. Bosie's script was loopy and elegant, the words spilling out across the page like flower petals caught in the currents of a clear mountain stream. They were so perfectly formed, so easily made, that Oscar felt almost profane in defacing the page with his scrawlings.

"I can't today," he wrote. "But tomorrow perhaps?" Bosie took the note from him, their fingers brushing, and Oscar shivered even though the room was preternaturally warm for a day in early September. The flaxen-haired youth took the note and unfolded it. A quick furrow of discontent dashed across his face like a raindrop trailing down a windowpane in a thunderstorm, only to be quickly replaced by the dawning sun that was his usual expression. He nodded at Oscar—a little sadly? Oscar wasn't sure.

"All right class, pack up your books," said Madame Arnold. "Au revoir." Oscar got to his feet with the rest of the class, cramming his book into his leather messenger bag and heading out into the hallway. Bosie waved to him and shot him a smile before heading off in the opposite direction. Oscar sighed softly. Why was high school so difficult?

Translation of the poem:

how often must I shake my bells, and deign  
>to kiss thy brow debased, full travesty?<br>to pierce the mark, whose goal is mystery,  
>how oft, my quiver, waste thy darts in vain?<p>

we shall exhaust our soul and subtle brain  
>and burst the bars of many a tyranny,<br>ere we shall glimpse the vast divinity  
>for which we burn and sob and burn again!<p>

some too their idol never knew, and now,  
>flouted and branded with the brand of hell,<br>go beating fists of wrath on breast and brow;

one hope they know, strange, darkling citadel!  
>— can Death's new sunlight, streaming o'er the tomb,<br>lure the dead flower of their brain to bloom?

—Translated by Lewis Piaget Shanks, _Flowers of Evil_ (New York: Ives Washburn, 1931)


	3. Découvertes de l'amour et la sagasse

**Chapter Three:** Découvertes de l'amour et la sagesse

"_Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship"—Wilde_

After school was over, Oscar gathered up his book and braved the way to his locker. The push of boys in the hallway was almost too much for him, and several times the delicate Irish boy felt a little overwhelmed. Still, he managed to make it to his locker, ducking around Baldwin and his gang without making eye contact. He'd had enough macho posturing for one day.

Dumping his textbooks in his locker, Oscar pulled out his astrakhan coat and shrugged it on. It was his most prized possession. The soft black lambswool kept him warm against any chill, and threw into striking contrast the alabaster of his cheeks, with their spattering of honey colored freckles. The coat had been a present from his old tutor, of whom he had been an especial favorite. His tutor had died tragically of consumption a few months after Oscar had been forced to leave him, and the coat was one of the few mementoes he had of the dear man. Oscar fiddled with the cuff for a moment while he looked inside his locker, making sure that he'd left nothing behind.

The hallway seemed oddly empty. Perturbed, Oscar pulled out his pocketwatch and checked the time. Three seventeen.

The buses home were supposed to leave at three fifteen.

That explained it then.

"Merde," Oscar cursed in French. Sometimes it was such a beautiful language to be angry in, all soft sounds and vowels. His apartment was far from school, and he didn't fancy a ten mile walk in the chill October air. Still, there wasn't exactly another way to get home. Pulling his coat more tightly about himself, Oscar set off on the long walk home.

The air was bitter cold, like the taste of tea that's been steeped far too long. Its long, thin fingers slipped inside of Oscar's coat and snaked up his pant legs around his long socks. They slid across the nape of his neck and down his back, slipping over his skin, caressing it with their icy fingertips. He shivered at their touch, and coughed faintly.

"Hey," said a voice from beside him. Oscar started. He'd been so lost in reverie that he hadn't seen the zippy yellow motor scooter pull up beside him. The vehicle stopped as the rider took his feet off the deck of the moped and letting his oxfords touch the pavement. The rider pulled off his helmet to reveal Robbie's smiling face.

"You look cold," he said. "What are you doing?"

"I missed my bus," Oscar said sheepishly, a blush rising to his cheeks, temporarily warming the chilled alabaster skin there. "So I decided to walk home. I didn't realize how cold it would be."

"Let me give you a lift," Robbie said. "Where do you live?"

"Dub Lane," Oscar said. "Number eighteen."

"I live right near there," said Robbie. "I'm on Carnation Road. You're on my way, I can drop you off."

"I wouldn't want to trouble you," said Oscar. "Can your scooter even take the two of us? I mean, I wouldn't want to overburden it."

"Oh, don't worry about Maud," said Robbie, beaming widely and patting the lemon-yellow scooter's side. "She's a tough old girl. We can do it."

"If you're certain," said Oscar. "I mean, I don't want to be trouble."

"Not a problem," said Robbie. "I'm glad to be of assistance. You have to be careful out here. It gets really cold here, you could catch your death."

Oscar climbed onto the back of the scooter. He was pressed up against Robbie on the almost too small seat. It was a rather tight fit, but not uncomfortably so. Robbie bent forward and unclipped his helmet.

"What are you doing?" Oscar asked, his brow furrowed. The smaller boy turned lithely and placed the helmet on Oscar's head, his fingers nimbly working the buckle to make sure it was fastened under Oscar's chin. The Irish boy felt a shiver run through him—not from cold, but from the electric feel of his gentle touch. Oscar reached toward the buckle to take the helmet off, but Robbie stopped him.

"Keep it on," he said. "I wouldn't want anything to happen. These are just back roads and all, but you need to be careful. If I'd known you would be here, I'd have brought a second helmet."

"But you need this," Oscar said. Robbie shook his head.

"You take it," he said. "I insist." He started the scooter again. "You might need to hold onto me," he said. "There are a few steep hills we'll have to go over." With that, he started up the scooter and Maud began to zip merrily along. Oscar soon discovered that it was necessary to lean against Robbie's back if he wanted to stop the wind. Nervously, he wrapped his arms around the emerald-eyed boy's waist. He felt surprisingly secure like this, even as the wind pulled at his astrakhan coat and at Robbie's dark curls. Robbie was a confident but safe driver, and Oscar trusted him on the turns and the dips. He was a little cold, but his chest pressed against Robbie's back was warm. The other boy was so close to him—but close in a good way. He could smell his scent—clean, like laundry and soap, with just a soupcon of mint about him.

"Hill coming up," Robbie's voice said, carried back to him on a stream of wind. Oscar glanced ahead to see a small mountain rising from the earth before him. His eyebrows raised, but Maud could make it, and the little yellow scooter chugged up the incline. Oscar tried to adjust his grip and felt himself slip for an instant. Gasping, he grabbed reflexively, wrapping his arms more closely around Robbie's chest. They mounted the summit of the hill, the scooter's engine sputtering with exertion as they reached the zenith.

"This is the best bit," Robbie said as they started the descent. Wind flew past them as the landscape blurred out into a Monet painting of dots and colors, almost making a complete picture but only leaving behind their subtle and delicate impressions on Oscar's consciousness. In front of him, Robbie whooped with excitement, and Oscar felt a laugh bubble up from his throat. He set it free, smiling widely at the sheer and perfect joy of the moment, of this scooter ride with Robbie and the miraculous wonder of being alive.

It seemed almost too soon when they purred to a stop in front of the building where Oscar had rented his small apartment. Robbie pulled up to the curb in front and stopped the scooter. Oscar dismounted and reached to take the helmet off, fiddling with the buckle that he could not see.

"Here," said Robbie, pulling off one black leather glove. "Let me." His touch was light and gentle, a mere butterfly's kiss on the skin of Oscar's neck. Oscar pulled the helmet loose, shaking free his brown locks.

"Thank you," said Oscar. "For the ride. And everything. You were wonderful."

"Oh," said Robbie, blushing. His face was already flushed with the wind's caresses, and the extra color that added to it made him look like one of Boticelli's angels. "It was no problem. You're on my way." He took the helmet and put it on, moving it to make it sit securely atop his curls. "By the way," he said. "If you ever want a ride, don't hesitate to ask. It's nice to have company. And the buses for this school… Well, they can have a few rather unfriendly characters, if you know what I mean. Not the most fun."

"Well," said Oscar, looking a little awkward. "If you wouldn't mind—I mean, I'll pack you back somehow. Anything that you need."

"You said earlier you'd tell me about the Uranian movement?" Robbie asked, his clever face alight with inquisitiveness.

"Oh!' said Oscar. "Yes, certainly."

"Well," said Robbie, smiling. "That will do. I'll pick you up here around eight?"

"Thank you," said Oscar again. "Thank you so much."

"Really," said Robbie, "I'm delighted." With that, he started up the scooter and puttered away. Oscar watched him go until he rounded the corner. Then, sighing, he dug his keys out of his pocket and let himself into the building.


End file.
